An Ode to Chances
by Drowl
Summary: Eponine Louis, adopted daughter of Javert Louis lives a rigid life under the watchful and law-abiding eye of her father. Eponine, through her sneaked in, sunset-to-night prowling of Paris, stumbles upon a beatific, blonde student in Saint Michele, leaving her with a passing "désolé" and a leather bound notebook filled with speeches and a promise of a new tomorrow.
1. Chapter 1

_Eponine Louis, adopted daughter of Javert Louis lives a rigid life under the watchful and law-abiding eye of her father. Eponine, through her sneaked in, sunset-to-night prowling of Paris, stumbles upon a beatific, blonde student in Saint Michele, leaving her with a passing "désolé" and a leather bound notebook filled with speeches and a promise of a new tomorrow._

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Look who has finally mustered enough confidence to write a Les Miserables fanfiction.

Hope you guys like it, really! This is set in a year and two months before the revolution and Les Amis de L'ABC is still being built up!

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**Chapter 1**

**_Where We Begin in the Middle_**

_"Few people dare say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only."_

Eponine Louis, clad in a dress of soft blue finds herself standing in a run-down, yet still functioning cafe in the parts of Saint Michele she has only passed on her way with her father to the precinct. There were young boys, she dared call them men, littering the ground floor and for a while she finds herself entertaining the idea of befriending them, unless of course, she had enough time since if she had her calculations correct, it was nearing a good two hours since she has strayed from another mass, one near Rue Plumet. She is otherwise, curious, as ever and she mentally tries to reason with herself when she remembers why she is here in the first place. In a Cafe Musain, of some sorts. Truly this cafe wasn't as grandiose as the ones near her home, yet it seemed more fitting, for her maid, Polast had refused to lend her working gown to Eponine, in fear of her father finding out.

"I d'nt want him cross wi' me. If e' finds out oh 'eaven!'' Polast always exclaims the similar sentiments, as if she wishes that the stubborn Eponine would finally listen.

Not today, she supposes.

"Mademoiselle! Bonjour, bonjour!" A drunk slur pierces through her stock-still figure and she finds her vision focusing on a tall man of curled, dark hair. The man is inebriated, that much is obvious. He is rowdy at best, with a jaw that is plentiful with the ghost of a beard. Although it looked uneven, a patch or two seemed to flow into thicker ones while the others looked as if they are to grow faster than the rest. With an absinthe in one hand and a cheeky smile, he bows sloppily. The ends of her lips quirk, for as he propels himself forward in shaky movements, the careful hand that holds upon the absinthe never wavers in its concentration and she assumes he's got the skill of never letting his absinthe goes to waste - unless it be in his system.

"Bonjour," Eponine replies, allowing her self to smile as cheekily as the young messiur' did.

"I am Grantaire! Welcome to Cafe Musain, I notice that you have been doing nothing but standing - and a mademoiselle would be quite the fool to not accept this beautiful absinthe " - at this, Monsieur Grantaire holds the hand where his absinthe lay, protectively almost, like a maman would hold unto a babe - "with the most ch-charming of men. Me, Grantaire!"

Eponine, who is far too willing to oblige the happy spirits of the inebriated man only shook her head in turn.

"But the question is, monsieur are you really willing to share your babe?" Eponine gestures towards the quickly emptying absinthe, the mock in her tone so apparent that it challenged the scent of the alcohol that seemed to surround the man like a halo to an angel.

Grantaire, not one for complexity, even during the mornings where he lays awake in complete sobriety, does not allow himself the patience to understand the teasing nature of the mademoiselle. So instead he smiles cheekily in turn, as if to prove that he _is certainly _lending an ear, when truth be told, Grantaire only wants another drink for the absinthe began to taste sour in the back of his throat. Grantaire thinks to himself, who in their right mind would want to indulge in a drink that is bland? Surely not he.

_"VIVE LE FRANCE! __VIVE LE FRANCE__!_" For a delightful second, Grantaire forgets that he is in the presence of the students, the persons of whom he could call his amis, and only when the resounding clamors of men traveled to the eardrums of the drunk and the mademoiselle does he come to realize that he has forgotten to listen to the speech of Enjolras again, which he himself tries not to at all.

"What was that?" Eponine is immediately intrigued, for what is a sound like that to her whom never heard such powerful diatribe? Not even when the militia visited in past _Joyeux Noel's _did she hear such fervor. Impulsively and with an even tighter grip on the book she is to return, she steps around the drunk in careful movements, lest she angers him (she is never truly comfortable around those who drink carelessly) and ambles her way to stairs leading to a second floor. At this point, Monsieur Grantaire stumbles right next to her, with a weary gaze he looks on in wonder at the shifting patterns in his vision. Where there two Mademoiselle Eponine's or where there one? Grantaire could not quite remember.

Eponine huffs in impatience, awaiting the response she needed from the man. But it seems to her that Grantaire had found an earnest intrigue on the patterns of her skirts for she swore he murmured,

"I do fancy drawing flowers..."

"I do not wish to push on your patience or your...kindness but I will be ascending up these very stairs. Do you wish to come with me?" Grantaire's vision finally allows himself to recognize that indeed, there were not four, nor three, nor two Eponine's at all! Only one!

"There is one of you" Grantaire says proudly.

"And you are very lovely!" Grantaire completes.

Oh but he is quite a gentleman, that he is, Grantaire tells himself.

Eponine raises a brow in turn, knowing that this man may might as well cask his head open if she were to leave him alone - although she is losing her patience and she might as well do - she finds herself taking pity on the man and instead, hauls him up in shaky limbs and ascends up the stairs in a fit of stomping mules, fine fabric and parfum.

* * *

Eponine, with a Monsieur Grantaire in tow, stands a top the staircase, successful in her laborious climb of the small staircase. Her breathing is quite hard, for it is not an easy feat to clamber up many steps whilst pulling a man who could easily weight the same amount as the babe of a horse; of course not to mention, the tightening of her corset whenever she dared to suck in more of a breath constricted her very freedom. Eponine concludes that if you are to combine that with the offending stench of Monsieur Grantaire's breath, it was a curious fact as to how she did not fall over in death.

"I have made it a top the world! It is I who lead the revolution!" Grantaire announces wildly and passionately, allowing the many eyes of the cafe to immediately gaze upon the two.

Eponine, colossal in temper and miniature in weight pushes Grantaire's arm away from her shoulders. She had allowed this touch not because she entertained the thought of him, but because it helped her dragged him up the stairs far quicker than actually dragging him by that unruly dark curls of his.

It was as if Grantaire's statement had been made by a man who announced that he is to give the entirety of Paris eighteen francs each, if they were to race to him as quickly as possible. For before she could allow herself to push away the shyness that had inveigled its way into her at the very moment, a man, who she assumes to be the amis of Monsieur Grantaire walks towards her, eyes a light and dark hair in a tousle.

"Hello mademoiselle! I am Courfeyrac " The man was of tall stature, his eyes were deep set and framed the jowls of his striking cheekbones well. He was handsome, Eponine concludes, and it confuses her as to why these students, with oddly striking features, seem to converge into one area. Though if she were to make assumptions based on what she knew of this Monsieur Enjolras' notebook, she would say that she stumbled upon a meeting of republicans, perhaps.

Before Eponine could muster an introduction of her own, another voice rang out and a man of freckled countenance and full lips clambered thunderously form the staircase and stood right beside Eponine.

"Oh hello Courfeyrac! Hello Grantaire, have you gotten yourself into another situation again?" A hearty laugh follows the man's comment and Eponine finds herself looking upon his countenance. He was handsome, she thought, tall with hair that seemed to not make the decision of being red or brown. Next to him, another man of a more olive complexion laughs heartily as he steps forward to lay a hand on his shoulder, he smiles too, and she finds it amusing that his cravat is tied in such an inexperienced manner that it leaves out red impressions on his neck.

She now, stood quiet and intimidated, for she is in the presence of so many men that she found herself scrambling at what to do. How is she to introduce herself when the freckled, young man had so innocently cut off her speech before she could start?

"Might you introduce yourself, mademoiselle?" Courfeyrac seemed to fully understand her predicament, was it because he was intelligent or was it because he noticed how, Eponine instinctively tried to make herself appear smaller? For you cannot blame Eponine really, she was born to thieves, to con men, and when there are very unsure moments, it is best to defend yourself in the most intelligent way that you can.

"Oh, oh, I am Louis...Eponine Louis." Eponine, in hesitance, seemed to contemplate forgoing a curtsy, but she did either way, just to appease her sudden nerves at meeting the intimidating group.

"Bahorel." Bahorel grabs at the collar of his cravat then, tugging it away from his neck in a desperate effort to find comfort. Eponine learns that this man Bahorel seems to not tower her as much as Monsieur Courfeyrac would in terms of height. Bahorel offers no other greeting, neither a kiss on the hand or a bow. But he offers her a smile that Eponine finds she prefers and in turn, she relishes in a small amount of comfort through Bahorel's simple sort of welcome.

"Je suis, Baron Marius Pontmercy." He is more freckled as he stands taller in the vision of Eponine. She does not find him intimidating, for he carries a light about him that suggested that he was indeed a dreamer, much lesser than the visage of persons like Courfeyrac or Bahorel or Grantaire. He is youthful in his stillness, she muses.

"Baron?" Her ears pick up at this much more than anything. He is of noble birth? _What is he doing here?_

A thunderous, commanding voice barrels through the easy air of camaraderie Eponine finds in the four men. As quickly as the feeling of comfort settles into her frazzled nerves, it leaves upon in quick flights.

"Maris you are late!"

Quick strides, tall frame, wide shoulders and a handsome face threaten to over power Eponine's senses. He is familiar in his movement, it is as if he lives and breathes with purpose and meaning. It is difficult of her to decipher his age, for if she looked closely, it would seem the fraying of age decorated the furrow of his brows and the storm in his eyes; but if Eponine were to glance at him through different specs, he seems as if he was but shy of the age of seventeen years.

It was fascinating, like a young boy in a old man's body.

"Oh Enjolras, I do apologize. The tenant owner where I lodge owe me a few francs, it is quite importa - "

"I do not wish to know more of your excuses. However, Marius, I would like to know if you happened to notice if I had left my notebook in Aloise's class this morning?"

"I have it, Monsieur." Eponine's voice seems to cut an even thicker piece through their small crowd; for now, the entertainment has been taken right out of the hands of Grantaire and it seems like the torch has been passed to her and to this enigmatic, solid man.

The owner of the notebook she now clutched to her very arms.

It was no surprise that it was as if Enjolras did not truly pay attention to the events of the cafe, he had many things in mind, his speeches, the arising count of death by hanging without trial in Paris (the count consecutively rose in a span of four days!) and many more that the mere grace of the girl escape his entire focus.

"Why is it in your possession?" Eponine had expected a polite inquiry, perhaps a greeting, one frank and curt like Bahorel's. But she was greeted with the tone of a man in great annoyance, as if she burdened him so _after she comes here to return his notebook._

"Because it had fallen from your grasp this morning. I have come here, to return it to you." Eponine found herself to be utterly confused and quite truly, a bit irritated at this arrogant man. Who was he to be so incompetent of total gratitude and yet look as if he breathtakingly sculpted by Davinci himself?

Enjolras gaze however, seemed to strike through her brown ones as if he was precising over every cranny of her soul. No such indication of what he was thinking shown on his chiseled face.

"How did you know where to find me?" Is all Enjolras gets to ask before a thunderous crash echoes through the cafe's chambre.

"MERDE!" Eponine is startled, for she had not realized that Grantaire no longer leaned on Combeferre, nor was he slurring anymore, for instead, he is clutching a table in front of a balding man, who she rightfully assumes to be the one to yell out in utter disgust. Splits of laughter and panic arose through the room, Combeferre too, ambles his way to grab unto the green Grantaire, so as to control his stomach and his urges to expel his vomit everywhere else in the cafe.

"Joly! Get a bucket!" Courfeyrac yells out in shaky tones, watching Grantaire as if he were a canon ready to mercilessly fire at him. At this rate, Eponine is busy watching everyone else become busy in their movements that she did not notice how she was not the only one to remain standing in the same place. For instead, Enjolras himself, stay rooted. She highly doubted it was because of the fact that he was a firm observer like she was - but more like he was temperamental and if he were to move, the shadow that had crossed his handsome features would expel and take everything else with it in its destruction.

A man clambers past her and Enjolras, his countenance contorted in disgust.

"Joly!" Eponine, so focused on her task of watching and listening to the men had been so startled by the commanding voice of Enjolras that she almost falls off from the stairs and into the hard ground below.

"Oui Enjolras?"

"Tell Jehan to escort Grantaire home. The stench of his vomit is enough to send an entire militia to its knees." Eponine smirks lazily at that, she muses to herself that if Grantaire could wipe out an entire army, won't these young revolutionist need him the most?

"Oui, Enjolras."

It is a havoc that engulfs them, but it is silent between Eponine and Enjolras. She fiddles with her fingers before he speaks once more.

"Mademoiselle, may I know your name?" It was as if this was not the man that had so viciously demanded why she held his notebook in her very hands. His eyes shone with not what she would call, _douceur _but it was certainly a lighter shade of blue, almost matching those of a periwinkle as it looked down to hers in a very odd, charming fashion.

"...Eponine Louis."

"How did you get here Eponine?"

Eponine dreaded this exact same question, for she thought that when she merely met the man who lost his notebook, she were to hand it to him, tell him she had rifled through it and that was it. But he was not like any man, he was a paradox of his own, one that intimidated even the Gods, if she were to boldly speak. He is not the Enjolras he thought he would be when she looked upon this book of his.

In fact, she had a knack that Enjolras would be older, much much older. The age of her papa, perhaps.

"I walked."

"To Saint Michele?"

"Where else?" Eponine noted on how his lips seemed to deepen in a frown at her curt replies. It seemed as if his patience was running short, and Eponine was willing to take bet upon herself that he is to walk away from her at this very moment, if it were not for the fact that she _still _had not given him the notebook.

"By yourself, Madame' Eponine?" Courfeyrac ambles back to Enjolras and Eponine, only catching the end of their conversation just to jump right back in quickly.

"I do not need an escort! I know these streets I do!" Eponine lies through her teeth easy, she knows the streets of Paris to an extent, but not all - "and if you are to scramble up and down the streets of this city alone, then so can I." Her nose upturns a bit at that statement, fuming in small irritation at Courfeyrac's words.

Courfeyrac stumbles a minute, for he did not mean to ignite the mademoiselle into a frenzy of chaotic words and defensive stares.

"Oh but I did not mean offense, madame I am merely suggesting that maybe I could escort you, if you were to walk about, of course. I do fancy making a new friend."

The man named Joly burst into laughter at Courfeyrac's words. For if one were to truly know Courfeyrac, it was he who inveigled the hearts of the young madame's of Paris. Was it his charms? His looks? His uncanny sensitivity with animals of the likes, cats, to be exact. It seems as though only Courfeyrac knew his own ways.

"Oh but I hope you do not mean anything else by that," Joly cuts in, hands wet from scrubbing them with soap thoroughly after assisting Grantaire's now unconscious form. Eponine immediately takes a liking to he, for he does truthfully take to his name. He is, for a lack of better word, _jolly._

"Could I have my book, mademoiselle, Eponine?" Eponine had forgotten the man was there to begin with, he had grown quiet, but instead of his enigma becoming lesser, it seemed as if it radiated in the same strength, all the same.

"On one condition, monsieur."

"Condition?"

"I will want to know more about your reason for uprising. I am not one to shy away from learning, and your friends have proven that it is truly enjoyable here."

"How do you know that?" Courfeyrac says, a bit baffled.

"Never mind how I know it, although it does intrigue me. Would it be far too outrageous to allow a woman to be included in your group, or does the belief of equality only apply for social classes and its injustices?" Eponine replies quickly, for she is quick on her tongue and fast in her wit.

"Equality, for all, mademoiselle." Enjolras answers for Courfeyrac, his brows now furrowed as he looked down at her in his infuriatingly, blank countenance.

"Brilliant. Will you want me to escort you by then, M. Louis?" Courfeyrac's easy tones was a startling contrast to Enjolras' commanding and enigmatic ones, and it seemed as if his voice and presence reminded Eponine that she did stand only with Enjolras, but an entire group was bared witness to their conversation - if you could even call it that.

Eponine smiles and with a shake of her head, agrees.

"Monsieur Enjolras, do we have a deal?"

Enjolras' stormy eyes distracted her greatly, so she did not stare defiantly into them, but instead, Eponine allows herself to admire the long lashes that adorned his eyes. When she looks at him in this light, he seems more human to her.

"Oui, mademe."

Eponine exhales shakily and wordlessly hands him his notebook.

He takes it upon his hands, eyes still on hers before he breaks his focus on hers, now setting it on Courfeyrac. "You are to go home now, Courf? Will you terribly mind it if I join you and Joly on your walk home tonight?"

Courfeyrac nods in answer and watched as Enjolras walked off without other words, his stature heading towards where Feuilly sat with his fans to retrieve his red coat.

The exchange between Eponine and Enjolras did not go unnoticed by Joly however, and he thinks of both of them with furrowed brows, now haply intrigued at the indescribable interaction between the two. If he were Prouvaire, perhaps, he could find words for it, but alas, he was only Joly. Perhaps if Prouvaire had not escorted Grantaire home, maybe he could help word the conundrum that was Eponine and Enjolras' interaction.

_In poetry, perhaps. _Joly thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

So so sorry for the late update, I'm _terribly busy with school and work, so I never really get the chance to sit down and edit out some of the chapters I've prewritten. As you know, the last chapter starts from the **middle of the story, so you get to see the glimpse of who Eponine became and not who Eponine was before Javert came along.**_

Alright, let's roll into my next chapter. x

Disclaimer: I own nothing

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CHAPTER 2  
**In Which We Start From the Beginning**

_"and if you fall as Lucifer fell..."_

"D' not hold your sh'lders tha' way, Astre, you'll be seen'!" The hiss from the alleys traveled strongly, but the young gamin's ears strain from the ringing that slightly deafened him. His stomach has missed the foreign feel of fullness, and with a hand full of black and slightly green bread, his mind has all but forgotten about the presence of the gendarmes, galloping around on their large, brute horses. The small focus he forced to push from his starving brain had divided itself into two: Astre wondered whether or not the shadows of the alley actually hid he and his oldest sister; the other other wondered why the gendarmes had chosen to ride through the slums.

Despite the orders of his sister to stay mute, he whispers, "Touiselle? Why are they ere'? They never come 'ere - "

"Astre! Shh!" Immediately, the young boy snaps his mouth shut which had the back of his teeth rattling on his mouth, briefly reminding him that two of them may fall even before he turns seven in the next winter. Although it be foolish, he finds himself feeling sadness over this future loss.

Contrary to any presumptions about gamins, Astre was never as quick on his feet unlike his older sister, Touiselle. She is but the woman who he saw as his maman, for theirs have been in prison for so long that Touiselle assumes that she had died there when the town had been plagued by the _Alague_. While Astre remained quiet, he took the time to lay his eyes on his sister. Touiselle was caked in dirt, so much that Astre often forgets that her sister's hair did not match the charcoal gray of the nights in the alleys, but a slight auburn that showed only briefly when rain falls and the snoot recedes unto the dirt ridden pavements. Her face was gaunt, a crooked nose to match thin lips and eyes so wide and blue that it seemed far too big for her sunken cheeks. She looked aghast most of the time, and although she could not write, she could read. Through Touiselle, Astre found himself knowing how to speak the small syllables that he often saw in the shoppes at town.

Astre glances down to her left hand where her remaining fingers gripped protectively to his rags, pushing his skinny frame farther back into the grime of the alley. Touiselle could not write for three of her fingers had been lost long ago, she tells him that they were never there to begin with, but Astre knew that Touiselle suffered from frost bite when she had held Astre's sleeping form in the dreary winter when he had turned six.

"_Merde_"

Astre's focus falters slightly and instinctively, he bares his arm around the bread that he had looted from the bakery a good nine buildings away from where they hid now. But in a single blink, he understands that he and Touiselle's food is not in danger of being stolen, but instead, he watches as Touiselle clambers closer to the light where the gendarmes had taken hold of their Papa.

Astre's empty stomach drops quickly and he grips at his tangled curls at the excruciating pain the hollowness of his stomach brought along with the dread. He yelps softly when Touiselle clambers off, eyes bright and skinny bones flying across the streets and unto their Papa.

"Messeiur! Messiur, what ar' ya doin? This is my papa!"

The pleading of Touiselle seems to have brought on a deeper hollow in the starving stomach of Astre, for he did not understand his papa well, he spoke of nothing and looked at nothing, Astre thought that he could not see, but Touiselle told him that the only thing he saw was what was in his head. Astre did not understand, so he did not approach his papa at all, leaving Touiselle to awkwardly check on the empty bones and skins of their papa.

It pained Astre to stay in the shadows, but his tiny body had found itself lacking energy and his vision continued to spin as the men in the clean coats and clean skin multiplied into two, into four. It was through this same vision that he almost finds himself running into the ground had it not been for the resounding whinny and a guttural scream that had his young head spinning even more.

Astre sees a small heap of brown near the foot of the men in the coats, he attempts to squint through his dizzying vision to see who it was, but instead he stumbles backwards into the shadow even more. When he forces himself to shake off the stupor that he had fallen into, he realizes that the heap was gone and instead it crossed the alley with stumbled steps and a face, familiar yet more discombobulated than what Astre was accustomed to.

"Touiselle? _soeur_ - " With shaky limbs, Astre softly touches the right hand of his sister, one where all her fingers were present. However, instead of a strong grip, Touiselle squeezes lightly in return and falls sideways over the alley way where Astre found himself leaning on earlier.

"Soeur, wha' has happen'?"

"I d' not like horses 'ery much Astre" Touiselle whispers silently and Astre finds himself realizing that an angry color now decorated the rags his sister had amongst her bony chest.

"Soeur? Selle', please wake, d' not sleep, y' re hurt? Selle?" Astre finds himself ambling the black bread to the fallen hands of his young sister, hoping that the thought of food will rise her from the state that she is in.

"Tis' fine Astre, le' me breathe fer a sec'nd." Astre finds his small fingers gripping the sunken cheeks of Touiselle and he imagines that she is not hurting, that she has not been kicked by the gendarmes horses after trying to take hold of their papa, that the cheeks that were colored with soothe were instead flushed with a healthy rose like Mademoiselle Aldreen's dress shoppe sign that he and Touiselle pass on their many walks.

And for the first time of the seven miserable winters Astre had lived through, he finds himself laying the head of his young sister on his small thighs, offering comfort for her weary soul.

* * *

When Astre had turned nine, he had lost many things in life. Many summers ago, Astre entertained the idea of having two more of his teeth falling off. Astre would have preferred that over the loss of the centre in his life.

It was one of the many nights where brother and sister had found themselves slumbering near the shallow rivers of the small town, the night was harsher than it had been in many days and he finds himself gripping the rags closer to his mangled body in an attempt to free himself from the rough cold. He imagined himself cocooning into the small warmth Touiselle offered, pretending that he and his sister were not turned away from hiding aside a warm pub, and instead they were escorted inside with a hot supper in hand.

All the whilst, Astre stared at the river that shone below him. It eased his spirits greatly, it reminded him of his sister, Touiselle, who seem to freely move like the water; moving and forever flowing, despite the roughened masses of rocks that bent it to its will. The last Astre saw that very night as he slumbered off is the serene face of Touiselle as his mind rests for the night.

It was with great confusion that when Astre awoke, the morning had not arrived with an onslaught of white, instead the green had startled him so greatly that he did not believe that it was so bright and warm after the storm of snow hours before that.

"Touiselle! Touiselle! Tis' warm now 'erything will be alright Selle. Selle?"

The silence that followed will always plague the nights of Astre for time to come.

Like Astre dreaded when he had been seven so many years ago, the loss of his two teeth never came to burden his miserable life - but instead God had taken something else he had.

"Touiselle? Soeur?"

Through shaky limbs, young Astre desperately grips unto the hollowed, cold cheeks of his _soeur, _and despite the many seconds he spent desperately trying to shake off the frozen dew of snow from the long lashes of Touiselle, his sister, his _maman_ - she did not stir.

Astre Javert was nine when he lost his sister.

* * *

Javert was ten when he had ambled his way into a convent. It was there that the meager food and warmth that he had been accustomed to as a young street rat changed for given time. His youthful eyes turned bleary by age and he poured himself greatly into working for the church and educating himself through the many bibles that laid in the convent. He did not garden for he was not good at it, but he helped water them for he knew Touiselle loved flowers greatly and only through this could Astre reminisce without shaking in grief.

Winters turn and the street stride that Astre had grown to know melts into the stride of a young gentleman. A boy he was, full of dreams, turned into sharpness and intelligence that made the twenty year old man. He does not cry to the news of the death of Priest Loussent who allowed his entry when he was only nine, but instead he returns home from university and instead, attempts to plant new flowers aside the one who dedicated to Touiselle.

Life goes on.

* * *

When Javert grows older, when the winter passes and he is twenty five and alone, he does not know why he falls in line to an eager set of men wanting to serve the king. But he does.

* * *

Astre is no longer Astre, but Javert as the years turn the handsome, destitute young man into one who only believed in law and nothing else. The years he had spent working among the men that lead France's destruction had further spun the hollow emptiness where Javert's stomach laid. Although starvation was a past memory of cold winters and desperate youthful pleas, ("_Please Touiselle, 'wake up! Selle, ma soeur, 'ya cannot leave m' be") _Javert cannot detect the hollowness that resides in him and instead, he ignores it.

The angry wind serves as a rightful distraction from his meandering gaze into the fallen ship.

When the prisoners were hoarded into their cells once more, a young man in coats meander towards him and the youthful gleam in his green eyes startles Javert into anger when memories of past coats and kicking horses fight its way into his system.

"Inspector, letter, it is - "

"Yes leave."

Inspector Javert knew who the letter was assigned to, Prisoner 24601. A criminal, sent to parole. A criminal - being sent off to destroy more lives. A criminal being grant an escape. A _criminal._

He ignores the pleas of Jean Valjean when Javert's gaze lingers on the murky ones of 24601 -

_"...it was but a loaf of bread...sister's son was dying..."_

Loavesof bread, sisters, and death belong in the past and Javert will hear none of it.

* * *

There were many stories that surrounded Javert's history, it dances around him in whispers when he leads his bande from alley to alley. Often, Javert would find himself scowling at the men and women who litter the depths of France as if they were rats with their slimy hands and scabby thoughts, but it was through his stoic and unjust cruelty that strengthen the fire of the whispers.

_"Who is Javert?"_ they say.

_"He is a general..."_ some whisper.

_"He will arrest you quicker than you can nick that man's pocket - do it wisely or he will catch you."_

_"Javert is scum."_

Javert hears them all and yet, he turns a blind ear. For only he knew the truth and that same truth will not change the present, where he rides away with prisoners under his belt.

Years have passed since his troupe had graced the outskirts of Paris, and yet he finds himself living astride Montreuil sur Mer, where he and his men, assigned to the highest degree, will protect the town from crime.

It was a winter's day, with Joyeux Noel creeping in the corners, the day the parchment from Paris had arrived in the hands of Javert. The monsieur he worked for - a terrible conundrum of foreign compassion and mystery that Javert finds abnormal - had closely strung memories of the young Javert. This monsieur's features, although resembling a man of true age, were familiar, as if Javert has personally witnessed the days of his vicious years. When he was new to the gendermarie he had been on the front line of many men like his father - all criminals, all stories packed with vicious lies that from years ago, he believed whole-heartedly. Then when he served his time watching over men with various identities, 2310, 8933, 9110, 3929... he had yielded from believing the stories that he had heard flowing rapidly in the prisoner's mouths.

This is what brought him to question the truth that lies behind Monsieur "Le mayor", it was as if the strings of his mind rapidly shook whenever he laid his eyes on the man and this was the sole reason why his cold hands shook as he read the parchment to himself.

Javert had been wrong. Monsieur Le "Mayor" was _not Prisoner 24601__._

* * *

Javert rides across a river near the outskirts of another nearby town, just outside Montreuil sur Mer. He found himself struggling to breathe, as if his lungs were drowning in water, yet it grips him tightly like an unrelenting storm of ice. With a graceful mount, he leaves his horse nearby and he in turn, strides towards the edge of the river where it lapped on the soil below.

Javert found himself where his life had seemed to pause so many years ago. It was not the same river that he and Touiselle frequented, for he could not find himself longing to remember the demise of the the one whom he loved the most. The river stood stock still that even the gentle swaying of the trees that curved into the soil near the river bank did not accost the water's seemingly solid state.

But the longer Javert stared at the black depths of the water, the stronger the influx of memories tried to burst free from his clouded memories.

So instead, Javert fixes his gaze upon the stars, allowing his depleting age to drag him down to a kind of sorrow he has never truly allowed himself to feel since he was but a young boy. Although his hands were tainted with the memories of his past, he remembered how the many men that had hurt he and Touiselle in the past years were _criminals, _the very men who had fiercely robbed him of what little food he had left as a rat without Touiselle. So many of them - they were all just like Jean Valjean.

They _must be._

"And men like him can never change." Javert concludes - but even in his own ears, he finds himself doubting the very words he spoke.

But Javert was not one for lingering, and he accepts his duty then.

Javert's gaze never wavers from the stars above and he finds himself making an oath; that he will find Prisoner 24601.

* * *

Wowza that was blah. I hope you guys liked this chapter, although it is very Javert-centric. But do know that this story does have Javert frequently featured in it, I want you all to see the amount of character parallels I do in this story - because to be honest, Hugo did that himself in the brick.

Ya know what I mean right?

Anyhoo, hopefully I get to update more often...leave reviews and what not!

Next chapter...sorta back to present. Not really. But the ball should be rolling on the Valjean/Javert chronicles plus how Eponine winds up in the care of Javert.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Starlight_

"And then I ask myself of the many things I find wrong with the sanitary of Jehan and h-he tells me, 'Joly my friend, you are far too nervous'. I am not nervous! I am merely careful!"

Eponine, in her entire life had never met anyone such as Monsieur Joly, he was far from a reproachful man and with that, Eponine found a small ease in his company. Although their walk had not started - for Courfeyrac insisted they wait for Monsieur Enjolras, at which Eponine instantly paled and became frustrated - Joly, had passed the time by first discussing the cleanliness of the bucket Jehan had picked to have Grantaire expel on, then discussing about the grime that covered parts of the Musain with fear that "they will grow mold and what of our systems then?!"

As Joly spoke, Courfeyrac sent a cheeky grin over at the Mademoiselle, examining her anxious face over the warm glow of the lamps that surrounded the lit Musain. This night was a rarity, for although Paris often delivered a frigid cold at night, it was instead, colored with a soft warmth that made Eponine's cheeks cease in their pinkness after the encounter with Monsieur Enjolras.

"What do you think?" Courfeyrac's voice split through both Eponine's musings and Joly's speech in proper cleaning techniques. However, instead of Eponine answering Courfeyrac's humor-mannered question, Joly intercepted.

"What do I think of wool brushes?" Joly mused, confused as to why Courfeyrac would question his opinion on a tool meant only for cleaning. Eponine smiled to herself, inquiring a gaze towards Monsieur Joly. She was not dim witted, in fact, she knew Courfeyrac's question was not necessarily directed to _what _she thought of the Les Amis, but more of whom he teased her with after they had removed themselves from the upstairs room.

So she chose to completely change the motion of the conversation - and who else to make that happen but Joly himself?

Before Courfeyrac could insist that he did not mean that, Eponine cuts him off. "Yes, Monsieur Joly. Are wool brushes any good? Will they not spread more of the mold since they stick to the ends of the wool? I would think it would rub it even more, since they do not necessarily stick to the material." As Eponine spoke, the incredulity in Courfeyrac's face grew whilst Joly's eyes grew wider as he absorbed the words Eponine had just spun out of desperation.

Sometimes being the daughter of crooks helped her in situations like these.

"Mon dieu, you are right." If Eponine had known, she would not have tossed the ball to Joly, for instead of going out of his mind and blabbering on after Eponine's opinion on wool brushes, he suddenly quieted, lost in his thoughts with little whispers escaping his mouth, as if he were already thinking of alternatives on keeping wood mold free.

"There was an effort to quiet me, mademoiselle." Courfeyrac laughed across her, loosening his cravat all the whilst. "But it did not work."

Eponine found herself narrowing her eyes, placing herself closer towards Joly in an effort to avoid the conversation she knew Courfeyrac was about to hold. But instead of questioning her about her initial reactions to the arrogant, Enjolras, he instead smiled, teeth and all at her direction, and asked her this:

"What were your intentions when you took the papers off of our leader's book?"

Eponine stood aghast.

Sure, she is not proud of the effects of having to live and be raised by thieves. But it did not escape her notice that when she was snatched off of the streets, the rat in her had began to lose the touch of a little pick-pocketing when needed be. She supposed she should feel the guilt of taking what is Enjolras', but it is in good curious nature that she did. It was not like she was to sell it for a loaf of bread.

At this point, Joly had quieted, instead he focused his weary eyes on Eponine, as if she were a germ ready to infest the man's coat.

"I-I did nothing of the sort."

Eponine said defiantly, nose turned up and a scowl on her chapped, pink lips.

"Oh but you did Mademoiselle. I am quite aware of what you can hide in a mademoiselle's skirt, not only that, but I saw the snippet of papers when you clambered up with Grantaire and into the cafe - but that is not what I am stressing here. You took pages off of his book - but why?"

Eponine ignored the comments on her skirts, and instead glared at Courfeyrac, her eyes falsely glowering like flames from the reflective light that surrounded the cafe. It was quiet for a few seconds before Eponine answered.

"I will not turn anyone in. I am merely investigating."

"Investigating?" Joly questioned, confused at her words.

"Oh for god's sakes, I am curious and it is better to take the lot of pages than everything is it not? Monsieur will not notice the missing pages, that book of his is as thick as a loaf of bread."

"Bahorel thinks it resembles more of a brick."

"Courf, I think I mentioned that comparison to Bahorel and he took it right from my mouth."

"But was it not Jehan that enumera - "

"This is beside the point!" Eponine looked exasperated at the two grown students becoming distracted by the turn of the conversation.

"I apologize but I assure you mademoiselle, it was _I _that should be credited for the brick, comment. Carry on." Eponine rolled her eyes at Courfeyrac and proceeded to roll back into her anxious self. It was quite late, and she had forgotten the pocket watch she usually kept near her when she went about the city.

"How long must we wait? The night is deepening and if I do not get home by now, monsieur, I may as well be chained into the depths of my home. I can very well take care of myself, I could walk on and - "

The glow that shone brightly on Eponine's face was immediately shrouded by a passing shadow. Tall and statuesque, a scowling Enjolras walked past her and into the far left flank of Joly.

"Do you ever stop talking?" He muttered, cold eyes set on Eponine's figure.

"_Excusez moi?_" Eponine's harangue reply seemed as if it was coated in fire and Joly particularly had widened his eyes at the fiery mademoiselle who seemingly grew larger as her temper rose.

Enjolras however, merely stood taller and walked on. Eponine glared at his towering stature, cursing the arrogant and incensed man in her head all the whilst. Who was he to speak down to her? She was Eponine _Thernadier_ - well, Louis, now, but she does not allow herself to be spoken to in such a way, despite her being an acceptable part of society now. As they neared a particular puddle, one that she knew had a deep fixture, she considered pushing the arrogant man into it, but the thought of his blonde curls melting away in the grime had done that thought good, for it banished completely. It was vain of her, yes, but she could not deny that Enjolras was a beautiful man, and despite his infuriating nature, she selfishly did not want to rid herself of the beauty all because she was angry at him.

She supposes that stealing the pages from his book was enough of a revenge for now.

* * *

Eponine blabbered on.

She spoke and she spoke, her conversations particularly pointed to Joly, the man who she concluded, seemed to be happy enough to comply her on. She found out that Joly had a mistress and that he shared a flat with another of the Amis. She completely missed the name for she was a bit occupied on eyeing Enjolras, silently wishing that he was annoyed at her exaggerated talkative nature. He stayed mute, though she entertained herself with comparing him to an irate feline, imagining the blonde curls of his to rise up in indignation every time she spoke more words. It was what entertained her, really, to get a rise out of the man who so arrogantly had practically told her to shut up mere minutes after they had met.

But when Eponine decided that she should expand her volume as well, Enjolras seized his steps immediately and Joly, in the midst of telling her about the difference between a common cold and a house cold, bumped right into his back and stumbled backwards.

"Oh Enjolras, sorry!" Joly immediately apologized, a bit perplexed as to why the man had ceased walking.

Eponine almost smiled, if it were not for the fact that flustered and annoyed blue eyes now stabbed right unto her brown ones.

"Joly, Courfeyrac, walk ahead of us. The mademoiselle and I must speak."

His stoic demand did wonders, for without questions, the two walked on. Joly sent her a small look from behind his shoulder, but before he could speak, Courfeyrac grasped his shoulder and urged him to look forward.

It was quiet as the pair walked on. The weather that had proved to be promising turned to be a liar from the beginning, it seemed that the closer they moved towards Eponine's home, the more frigid the weather turned. It was either that or the stoic nature of Enjolras had influenced even the weather to bend to his will.

The silence stretched on and Eponine's silence made her realize that Enjolras had not wanted to converse, but instead walked with her for the sole reason to shut her up even more. For who is she to speak to now that Joly and Courfeyrac were ahead of them?

Eponine cleared her throat.

Silence.

Eponine cleared her throat once more.

Silence.

Before Eponine could clear her throat a third time, Enjolras ceased his steps and looked down to her defiant eyes.

"What is it?"

Eponine's face melted into one of stoicism and she stood up higher, on her tip toes as she scowled at him in turn.

"Joly, Courfeyrac, I must _speak _with the Mademoiselle." Eponine's already low timbre of voice had gone even lower, as if to reach the same treble Enjolras spoke with when he did speak (apart from his speeches.)

Enjolras' eyebrow merely rose high and his lips twitched at her imitation, but after that, said no more.

He looked ahead once more, proceeded his strides, albeit slower as if to encourage her to keep up with him.

Eponine deflated immediately, letting out the the air she sucked in to make herself appear as broad shouldered as Enjolras. The familiar constrict of her corset immediately made her chest cease up and she scowled now too, annoyed at the blasted undergarment. But she did not have time to muse, for Enjolras had taken a bit of a distance between them and she hurried to catch on with the man.

"You are infuriating you know?" She said as soon as she was matching his strides once more. She tried to mismatch her steps and her swinging arms so they did not synchronize, but whenever she tried to they fell into a rhythm in their steps once more.

Enjolras looked on with his stormy blue eyes, his gaze did not linger on her or anything but ahead.

"Are you feeling content over the course of the way the King leads France?" His reply was a dismissive one, he did not reply to Eponine's question, but instead, seized the reigns of the conversation in his large hands and fiery nature.

Eponine stopped her ill humor in a sudden realization that he is _certainly_ this passionate about his uprising - she wanted to mock him, for she knew that a bourgeois boy like he couldn't possibly be serious. He was a conundrum of fire and innocence all at once, she concluded.

The shadows in his eyes and the youthful planes of his terribly handsome face confused Eponine to no end, for when the shadows of the slums of Paris hit him just right, he looked like a young, defiant lion of a man - but when the light of the sun shone against his stoic features, he looked like a young boy in birth of spring.

But it seems like her silence had been interpreted by Enjolras completely and his snort had caused Eponine to cease her thoughts on his confusing character.

"Or have you no opinion, _mademoiselle? _Are you quite content to not see the hungry beggars at your shined shoes?"

Eponine was wrong, he was not a man that resembled an older spirit in a young man's brave heart, he was a complete _salaud. _He is crass and not shy of his words.

"Monsieur, you must take a break from your idealist ideas and open your eyes. Your passion for _egalite _have surpassed your ability to be less of a _salaud_." Her words were harsh and spitting right out of her clenched teeth and Eponine urged herself to not spit right at his face.

Enjolras however, had stopped once more, his head swiveled right towards her infuriated face at the word that escaped the mademoiselle's mouth. For a lack of better word, Enjolras was baffled. At this point, Eponine's home was mere feet away and in her anger, she planned to storm off into the surrounding wall, but she had gotten the tips of her mules caught on the pavement and she stumbled forward. Enjolras however, had quickly grasped her arm, saving her from a bad fall.

Eponine did not forgive easily, however. She snatched her arm right from the arrogant man's hands, scowling angrily at his countenance. In a stem of curses, Eponine had hitched the skirt of her dress up to expose her ankles, ripped off the offending pastel-carnation mules and muttered more curses that Enjolras continued to be baffled with.

A_ mademoiselle _she was indeed, one with a colorful vocabulary that surpassed an inebriated Grantaire._  
_

"I have had it with this _mules_ and your arrogance, Monsieur Enjolras. Good night!" With her skirt on her tightly-fisted hands, she stormed ahead of him, past an astounded Joly and into Courfeyrac.

"I will see you tomorrow." Eponine said to Courfeyrac before she walked on towards a gated maison, turned towards the wall that surrounded it, placed her foot on a brick-less nook and scaled it with a practiced grace.

Enjolras then stood quietly, now with his lips tightly molded into one of annoyance and guilt as he willed his gaze to travel past the gates of the maison and into the infuriatingly lovely Eponine Louis.

"Tomorrow it is then." Courfeyrac announced mockingly, sending a look towards Enjolras that fueled him to stride forward and into his flat.

* * *

_**YIKES**_

Well wasn't Enjolras and Eponine struck in a moment of breathless delight with each other? (HA!) I hope I didn't make Enjolras too much of an arse, but brick Enjolras can be a bit of a snark, can he? I don't want to rush the future romantic interaction between E et E, but you know, they probably would not immediately cling into each other like hungry sharks and fall in love at first breath.

And I hope I didn't completely shadow Eponine's character, despite her being well-off due to her being the daughter of Javert. I even added a bit of her character in it that was inspired from the brick._ (Eponine wanted to drown herself but she thought it was cold so she didn't = Eponine thought of pushing Enjolras into a puddle, but didn't, because that would ruin his angelic features.) _

R&R please! Last chapter I didn't get any reviews (was it because it was Javert eccentric?) but had follows. Hopefully I can update quicker than usual, I don't want anyone growing bored or anything.


	4. Chapter 4

To those reviewers that found Eponine's contemplation of pushing Enjolras into a puddle - this won't be the only time that thought will cross her mind. This is _Enjolras _we are talking about, she is bound to feel the need to shove him into crevices to shut him up from time to time.

And I'm updating quickly because I feel a bit horrible for leaving chapter 1 unattended to for weeks. So this should be my apology.

(A few reviews and a little more followers - I'll take what I can get. But I would like to get more feedback!)

Disclaimer: I own nothing and probably never will. Till I become a trillionaire and buy the rights.

* * *

Chapter 4

_Fire_

It would be a falsehood to say that Eponine Louis did not take pride in being able to do such things that no proper Mademoiselle would. Although she is certainly not one from birth, she is now, under the pretense of being the daughter of such a character as legalist as her _papa. _Lest she forgets, however, she immediately slips into the character of one when she slips into her room at night.

How she came to be the bourgeois mademoiselle she is today is an evasive subject, although she wined, she ate and bathed like one - Eponine did not fully felt as if she _is _one. To her, it had been an escape from the weary days of her youth, when things went wrong and the grit of poverty threatened to crush her under its unmerciful grasp. Eponine, however, avoided all emotional pretenses around Javert - although she called him _papa _(for the monsieur and mademoiselles of her society would surely gasp if she dressed him by his name) the relationship the both of them had was only of mutual respect, care and share of living quarters.

To Eponine, however, she imagined that their combined shadowed lives were more of an armor that evade the threatening cracks of their true, miserable identities.

* * *

Thus, with a surprise, she awoke to the sound of scattering footsteps and a tremendous heat that threatened to strangle the air from her throat. A second passed and Eponine had thought the life she had lead up to today was a dream that she had in the throes of her hunger-crazed mind, but within these very seconds that she prepared herself for the onslaught of shaking that came with the fits of starvation, hands grasp her shoulders and she is sent tumbling and tripping over her long sleeping gown.

"Eponine, awake, Eponine!" The mist of smoke seemed to flee into an opaque fog at the rumble of words that shook Eponine to present, although the smell of soot did not remove itself from her aching nostrils, she did not struggle with the knowledge of who held her at the very second.

"Papa?!"

He did not reply, for he had passed her on to a pair of arms, and with a weary mind she recognized the woman to be the governess of the Louis maison.

"Liossaun? Liossaun what is the matter?" Eponine's desperate hacks had proved to hurt her throat and she felt as if the insides of her mouth had shriveled and dried. The sleep still robbed her of proper understanding of the situation, but slowly the feeling of adrenaline rushed to her veins and Eponine, now struggling to shake the smell of burning, shot up from the arms of the governess and flew towards her boudoir.

"Mademoiselle! Eponine!"

Eponine tore through the hallway that she was dragged from not minutes ago, but as she sped and threw her suite's door open, the hunched figure of her papa, breathing deeply greeted her instead of the raging fire her imagination has fed her. What shocked her, most importantly, was not the state of her blackened cheminée, but the state of the dress she had meandered around many hours ago in the presence of the ABC.

The rest of her room was engulfed in smoke, though the cheminée was blackened and the state of the furniture near it, chiseled to resemble a horrible black. No gasp left the lips of Eponine however, instead she had composed herself immediately and ran towards the hunched figure of Javert, seemingly weary and exhausted from his mission of putting out the fire.

"Papa?"

"Your dress, it had caught fire." The voice he beheld matched her own, it felt as if the both of them had gone without water for so very long. Eponine did not like to admit it, but the tenor of his voice fraught with the husk of smoke reminded her of many men from an inn many a days ago. Liossaun's gasp shook both daughter and father out of their thoughts and immediately, the woman went into a flurry.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle, should I call upon a physician? Oh what a mess, oh what grief!" Eponine was to retort that it was far too early in the night for this, when she realized that the sun outside was on its early dusk. Had she slept only for a good few hours?

"Liossaun, fetch M. Glimer from Lavien. Hurry on."

As Liossaun fussed and her footsteps echoed away, Eponine allowed herself to panic. _Where_ had she placed the pages of Monsieur Enjolras' notebook? Had she removed it from her dress? The ends of her dress had been charred, though the upper half seemed salvageable, it did not escape her notice that the probability of the many pages she had looted could have been burned in the site.

But what of her papa _seeing _them if it had not been burned?

This caused nausea to spring up from her empty stomach. She felt green to this idea, more so than the realization that she could have been easily charred into flakes of nothing if her papa had not removed her from her boudoir.

"Have you caught fever, Eponine? Are you well?" The stern voice of her father shook her from the daze that took on from her brown eyes, although the soot had marred the face of Javert, the clear worry shone on his features. It was not as if she was startled by this - her adopted papa showed concern in manners that were different - but it sent a lump to her throat that she had a hard time swallowing.

"I am quite fine Papa, let us get you to the salon, you have strained yourself far too much this morn."

* * *

After Eponine had washed the soot from her face and exchanged her night gown to something more decent, she walked on to the parlor, a basin in hand with warm water she had boiled in a daze. The worry of finding charred pages from the skirts of her dress plagued her. The fear and the nausea had not calmed down as the minutes passed, she wished and hoped upon God that the papers have been saved - and if so - her father had not caught on to it.

It was also the fear of her papa finding and reading them that threatened to constrict the normally unaffected Eponine.

When she had ambled on towards the salon, with her brunette locks in a loose braid, it startled her to see Monsieur Joly crouched beside her papa with his countenance strained in concentration. Eponine felt as if she were in a dream and the fear seemed to grow in her at the sight of her papa and he, Monsieur Joly, in the same room.

Joly's eyes flashed in recognition and in his shock, his crouched figure jostled. For a second he looked as if he were to fall over, but caught himself on time. He looked agape at her for a few seconds that Eponine felt as if he spoke, he would instantly spill of the wanderings Eponine did at night.

So, naturally, she spoke first.

"Monsieur Glimer?" Eponine said in confusion. As far as she knew the physician had been a graying man, without children. Her papa had only ever had his or her health checked by the same man, so it was without a doubt, a shock, to see Joly in place of the monseigneur. She highly doubted that Joly was related to he, for they did not resemble each other at all.

"Oh but gracious, this is Monsieur Joly. Monsieur Glimer is not in Paris and his wife had insisted his best student checked upon your father. Monsieur Joly, this is Mademoiselle Louis." Her governess spoke in such quick retorts that she risked the look of amusement sent to the maid of the house, Polast.

Polast sent a cheeky smile in her direction in turn.

"Bonjour Monsieur Joly." Eponine curtsied, a ghost of a smile on her lips when Joly bowed shakily in turn. He looked at her with inquisitive, wary eyes, the same look he gave her when Courfeyrac had announced she had taken the many pages off of Enjolras' notebook.

It dawned on her that the knowledge of her being the fille of Javert was surely not a good thing, especially for the Le Amis.

Eponine's eyes widened and she fought with the urge to pull unto the hand of the ami and into the gardens to speak of the circumstances. The dread of the mystery of where the notebook pages had gone to came flooding back to Eponine. Not only that, the fear brought on nausea once more that she ambled clumsily unto the salon's remaining sofa and tumbled down without a moment's notice.

Javert's voice echoed throughout the silent salon.

"Monsieur, if you may will you check the health of ma fille? She, I fear, has gone through worse of the ordeal. Polast, you are to call upon Ernest. I shall be arriving to the station earlier than planned, inform him of this." Her papa had already walked out of the salon and she heard his footsteps echoing as it clambered up to the second story. Her governess, however, remained standing by the parlor, offering as a _watch _of some type to the young mademoiselle and the young monsieur.

Eponine knew opportunity when she saw it and without hesitation, she made a grab for the very thing.

"Liossaun, please prepare me a bath." Eponine knew it annoyed the woman to no end when she addressed her in such a way, as if she was more of a maid than a governess, but she knew it was just the right recipe to have her turn up her large nose and stomp away without questions.

Now that they are alone and the fear of having prying ears were gone, she immediately took the hand of Joly and dragged him to the far side of the salon, where she knew that any straining ears of the home will struggle to hear their conversation.

"Eponine?! Javert?! '_ma fille?!'_" Joly's perplexed face and tone traveled to her ears. Her hands took a life of its own and she found herself waving them frantically, as if to tell him that all is not what it seemed.

Her throat still ached and she could not speak without resembling that of the gritty vocals of a drunkard, but in hushed tones she began to ramble.

"Joly I am afraid that what you think is not true at all. I fear, however, that the papers I have taken from Enjolras have been churned in the fire or had fallen off someplace. I have had no time to check for Polast insisted I change for the given time when we were awaiting for you - or it be more appropriate that we not waited for _you _but M. Glimer, but this is beyond the point!"

Joly's dazed look seemed to melt the more Eponine spoke. And to her irritation, the reply of Joly was one she did not find satisfactory.

"Enjolras is right, Mademoiselle you do tend to speak so very much."

Eponine, in her frustration, took it upon herself to mar the hand of the amis by pinching it in annoyance. Joly jumped at this, snaking his hand away from the sting that the young mademoiselle had given him.

"Are you quite done being absurd? Joly you must listen to me, I do not intend to speak of the abaisse with papa - I rest assure you that if I were to do join your organization, all for the sake of observance for instance, I will not reveal of my happenings lest papa punish me greatly."

Joly's brow popped up at her reasoning and she urged herself to not give him another pinch.

"...or in fear of having you all arrested. Your plans of over throwing the state is safe in here." Eponine made a motion to tap at the side of her head.

"Eponine!" Both Joly and Eponine jumped at the voice of the woman.

"Must you frighten me so Polast!" Eponine yelped in turn, clutching at her skirts as if she were holding back the urge to throw a punch at the reaction to her fright. _Old habits, die hard._

Polast did not reply, but instead looked upon both Monsieur Joly and her with her inquisitive, bright green eyes. It was quiet for a few seconds before she spoke.

"I ope' ya d' not intend to galivate with these p'pers around the house _mademoiselle. _I do not think your papa - " Polast held the pages that were the key to alleviate the fear that had Eponine in a tumult of emotions this morning, and in her relief she immediately pounced on the portly woman, taking the papers to her chest with bright eyes.

"Oh Polast I owe you my life!" Polast's smiled in turn, but her shifty eyes went to the monseiur behind her.

"I so ope' that you ar' more careful."

Polast made to turn and leave the salon, but before she completely left she turned once more.

"Your papa 'ill be leaving soon and e' cannot escort you to the church. Your governess will."

Eponine's relieved smile fell quickly.

"But Polast, what about you? Oh Polas - "

"Mademoiselle, I 'ave a room to clean and a cheminée to att'nd to!"

"Polast!"

"Non mademoiselle!"

Polast immediately turned out of the salon, lest Eponine follow after her with her desperate pleas.

"Is the governess that horriblé?" Joly mused beside hers, picking at the stray lint from his brown coat.

"Oh Joly, you do not know half of it."

* * *

Man, I really love Joly. He's one of my favorite amis, next to Courfeyrac, Enjolras and the rest, of course. Besides, how **perfect **is Hugh Skinner as Joly? He's a dreamy fella, too.

Leave loooooots of reviews, please! Next chapter...church and more Enjolras and the amis.

And other stuff.

Also I'm going to probably geekily make an art out of this story in my own tumblr, ha, so if you want to visit my blog, do so here: ( violentporcupines . tumblr . com)


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